


History Hills

by RememberingEmbers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Classism, Domestic Violence, M/M, References to Drugs, References to drug addiction, abusive content not between victor and yuuri, domestic abuse, fast burn??, kid!minami, longfic, minor mpreg components, not slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RememberingEmbers/pseuds/RememberingEmbers
Summary: Victor is a wealthy, kind, lonely man whose life changes the moment he meets single father Yuuri, his son Minami, and his friends Phichit and Yurio in History Hills Trailer Park.





	History Hills

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with me as I begin a new fic! A tag that I fear might get a little lost up there is for mpreg components; they're relatively low-key, but please mind that if it's a squick for you. Hope you are all having a fantastic week!

The boy can't be more than six years old.

Victor idles alongside him in his silver convertible, frowning. This kid's on a _mission_ : he's holding a paper grocery sack and marching determinedly down the dirt shoulder of the road, jelly sandals kicking up dust with every step. His hair, sunny blond with a wide raspberry-colored stripe through the fringe, shows black roots. When he sees Victor staring at him, he glances up with dark, pretty eyes—and glares. "You're so sketch," he says in his high baby voice, startling a laugh out of Victor.

"Am I? I'm sorry. Do you know where you're going?"

"Store," says the boy vaguely. He has a snaggletooth; one of his canines is visible over the pouty edge of his lower lip. "The good one."

"Ah," says Victor, though he doesn't think he'd be able to tell the 'good' store from the bad one. He's about thirty miles south of his estate, and this territory—unmistakably low-income; unwooded and shabby and crammed with metal-sided trailers—is unfamiliar to him. Trashy, if you want to be honest about it. Depressing. Victor taps the steering wheel with his thumbs, trying to think: coaxing the child into his car would be more significantly 'sketch' than following him, wouldn't it? He doesn't want to be a creep, but he doesn't want to leave the boy alone, either. He makes a frustrated sound. Where on earth are his parents?

"You don't live around here," the boy informs him. "You have a car."

"Correct," says Victor. An extremely expensive car, at that. He proudly adjusts his rearview mirror, but the boy is not impressed.

"That makes you a stranger."

"I—suppose it does."

"I'm not a'pposed to be talking to you," the boy announces, and continues down the road, clutching the grocery bag to his chest like a shield. The heels of his sandals light up red as he strolls away. Victor stares after him, concerned and uncertain and more than a little disoriented.

Suddenly, there's a gunshot-like bang from one of the trailers in the distance. Victor actually ducks and covers before he realizes that it was just one of the metal doors being thrown open: a man, silhouetted gorgeously against the sunset, clatters down the three steps and begins looking around frantically. When he spots the boy, he cries out, throaty with emotion.

"Kenjirou-kun!"

"Daddy!" the boy says, wheeling around and arching excitedly onto his tiptoes.

The man hauls ass down the road at a full sprint. He's there in an instant, scooping his son up under the arms and shielding him from Victor, the paper bag crumpling between them. "Who are you?" he asks Victor, his voice shaking. "What were you doing with my child?"

"Nothing, I swear!" Victor says. He puts his car in park, raising his hands. "I was just worried when I saw him walking alone. I thought I'd make sure he got to his destination. He said he was going to the good store."

"The good—" the man begins, then groans, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears slip down his cheeks. He lifts his thick-rimmed glasses to swipe them away, angling the child so he can see his face. He shakes him once, gently. "Kenjirou, you _never_ go anywhere alone, do you understand?" he demands, gulping back sobs. "Not anywhere! Not even to the good store! I was so worried about you; I thought—I thought someone _stole_ you—"

The boy, Kenjirou, is beginning to cry now too. "You said you needed milk!"

"I don't need milk! I need my baby!" The man nuzzles into the crook of his son's neck and inhales his soft, cheap-laundry scent deeply, rocking him back and forth. It's such a heavy, private moment that Victor feels like an intruder. He reaches subtly for his keys, but the man lays a hand quickly on his forearm, halting him. "I'm so sorry, sir. Your name is...?"

"Victor."

"Victor," the man repeats. He drags the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes one last time, then smiles luminously. "Victor, thank you so much for watching him. I'm Yuuri Katsuki, and this is my son, Kenjirou."

"Hello," Victor replies, a little fainter than he'd intended. Now that Yuuri is smiling, Victor can see that he's far past lovely: he's _beautiful_. He's got dark hair and long, straight lashes, sweet eyes, a full, pink mouth. The hip that he's holding Kenjirou on is strong and generous; proof that he was the one who birthed the boy. He's not wearing a wedding ring.

"Are you lost?" Yuuri asks him.

"Ah—no, thank you. I know where I'm going."

"Oh. I just ask because we don't see many Aston Martins here in History Hills Trailer Park."

"I'd imagine not," says Victor, then backpedals when he realizes how snotty it'd sounded: "I mean—they're falling out of favor, that is; most people prefer, uh, Ferraris or Regeras—my neighbor sold his for a Huayra—"

"I'll take your word for it," says Yuuri, amused.

He shifts Kenjirou in his arms, grimacing a little, and that's when Victor looks down and sees that he'd run down the gravel road without shoes on. Victor winces. "Can I give you a ride back?" he asks, subtly trying to wipe his front seat free of fast food detritus.

Yuuri blushes. "Thank you, truly, but it's not even a block—"

"Please. It's getting cold." It is. It's been a stormy spring, and the air is humid and biting when the sun goes down.

"I want to ride in the Asshole Martin," says Kenjirou.

"Aston!" Yuuri corrects quickly, but he can't keep a straight face, and neither can Victor. Their eyes meet, and then they're toast: they stand there laughing long and hard enough that Kenjirou's face grows thunderous with indignation, and the last fingers of light on the horizon start slipping away. Yuuri and Victor beam at each other in the growing darkness, the gaze delicate and loaded. Yuuri bounces Kenjirou up and down. "Maybe just to the trailer," he says.

Victor grins, swinging the door open for him. Yuuri carries Kenjirou around the car and puts him in the front seat, drawing the safety belt over his chest and fastening it before squeezing in himself between Victor and his son. The clutch pokes his ass cheek. He jumps.

"Ouch."

"Oh, sorry. Once it's in drive, you should have more room."

"And here I thought you were just happy to see me," says Yuuri, smiling sheepishly.

Victor's heart thuds in his chest. He smiles back, his throat tight with shyness.

The drive is so smooth and short that they don't have time to speak: his car runs like a dream, and Yuuri and Kenjirou ooh and aah accordingly, but it only takes an instant before they're pulling up in front of the dented aqua trailer. Warm orange light spills from the windows. Kenjirou hops out of the car and runs inside, screeching, but Yuuri lingers, hands nervously folded together as he toes on a pair of oversized sneakers without breaking eye contact. God, he's magnificent: his overalls and plaid button-up are unmistakably cheap, but they're clean, and his expression has all the alertness and warmth and intelligence as some of Victor's colleagues at Brown. Yuuri sucks his lower lip between his teeth, thinking, and in that moment looks very much like his son.

"Would you like to come inside for dinner?" he asks at last.

"Yes!" Victor blurts, before Yuuri has even really finished the question. They pause, confused.

"I—I mean, it's probably something like—macaroni and Kool-Aid—"

"—that's fine—"

"—and my roommate's here—"

"—okay! That's okay. Thank you, really. Yes."

They blink at each other, then Yuuri breaks into a slow, amused smile. "Okay," he says, climbing up the metal stairs and holding the trailer door open. Victor scrambles out the passenger side, pocketing his keys as he mounts the steps. He has to tilt sideways to squeeze through the doorframe. The motion brings them close together, nearly chest-to-chest, and Yuuri looks softly up at him through his lashes as he scoots by.

Inside, the trailer is small and sparsely furnished. There's a paisley sofa, an accompanying armchair, a clean expanse of countertop and a rickety folding table surrounded by barstools. Drying laundry adorns every surface. A beautiful brown boy is standing at the stove in flip flops and booty shorts, whistling as he flips omelets shut around little coins of hot dog. When he sees Victor, he smiles and cracks another two eggs into the pan with a flourish. Apparently Kenjirou's got him up to speed. "What do you want in yours?" he asks.

Victor blinks. "Oh, uh—just egg is fine."

"Cheese and hot dogs it is," he declares, taking a Kraft single from the mini-fridge, unwrapping it, and smacking it down in the center of the skillet. He offers Victor the clean hand. "I'm Phichit Chulanont. Kenjirou assures me that you are 'not as sketch' as you look."

"I'm really not," Victor insists, with a little too much feeling. Phichit squints, and Victor clears his throat. "Um, I'm Victor."

"Hi, Victor. You can sit down anywhere."

"Thanks." He selects the sofa in hopes that Yuuri will sit beside him. The cushions are worn and smell of sleep; it clearly operates as someone's bed during the night. Maybe Yuuri's? Victor touches the armrest lightly, with new interest. He wonders what Yuuri looks like when he first wakes up, still half-asleep, hair tousled—

"What would you like to drink?" Yuuri asks. "We've got water, grape Kool-Aid, PBR, Coke—"

"Fresh out of Goût de Diamants," says Phichit. He pronounces it correctly, and Victor must look startled, because he and Yuuri laugh.

"Phichit bartends at 21&Cup," Yuuri explains.

"I've never been there," says Victor.

Phichit snorts. "Yeah, no shit. It's a dive bar in a town with a population of eleven-hundred. Let's break out the good stuff, Yuuri! Give him the last Capri Sun."

"What's a Capri Sun?"

"Oh, man," says Phichit, and Kenjirou, who's watching him cook, gasps and hops down from his little footstool to grab something from the fridge. He turns up a second later with a shiny pouch that has cartoon volleyball players printed on the front. There's a plastic straw attached to the back. Kenjirou unwraps it and punches it into the beverage, then passes it off to Victor, eyes wide with excitement.

"Pacific Cooler is my favorite!" he says.

"Well, don't let me deprive you," Victor says, trying to hand it back, but Kenjirou is insistent, and Phichit and Yuuri are watching with wicked amusement. Helpless, Victor takes a small sip. It tastes like cold, liquidized candy.

"Mmm!" says Kenjirou.

"Mmm," Victor returns bleakly, making Phichit and Yuuri laugh.

"I prefer the orange ones myself," says Yuuri. He crosses the trailer and sits down next to Victor, just as he'd hoped. Their thighs touch. This close, Victor can see the pretty gold-brown flecks in his dark eyes, the little thread of scotch tape holding his glasses together on the side. "No, but really, sorry we don't have anything else to drink. Would you like some water?"

"No thank you. This is fine," says Victor, because he doesn't want him to get up. He takes another long, pained sip. "How long have you been living here?"

Yuuri thinks. "Hmm. Three, four years? Phichit and I moved here from Detroit. Kenjirou was only two or so." He hoists Kenjirou into his lap. "Do you remember Detroit, boogie-boo?"

"No," says Kenjirou sadly. He eyes Victor. "How old are you?"

"Guess," says Victor, laughing at Yuuri's apologetic expression.

"Fifty."

"Close. I'm twenty-eight."

"You're old," Kenjirou says. "Daddy is twenty-three."

"That's—actually correct," says Yuuri. "Good memory."

Victor smiles reflexively, but it occurs to him suddenly that if Kenjirou is indeed six, Yuuri would've had to have conceived him when he was only sixteen or seventeen. That concerns him. He hopes that Yuuri's pregnancy was consensual and healthy, though of course it would be inappropriate for him to ask at this point. He turns his attention to Phichit instead. "You're at least twenty-one, then?"

"Twenty," says Phichit. "I bartend on a minor service permit. My birthday's at the end of the month! Want to come to my party? We're going to make beer can chicken and then mud-wrestle in only our socks."

"You're—really?" asks Victor faintly, then blushes when Phichit and Yuuri start laughing.

"No, we're going ice-skating. I've always wanted to try it. Do you ice-skate, Victor?"

"A little," Victor says, feeling strangely foolish. He's a fantastic skater, actually—took private lessons as a child and competed in a few statewide events—but the opulence of his life seems stiff and empty against the richness of this small family; their dusty cul-de-sac and self-effacing humor and the soft, easy way they share space.

Phichit finishes the omelets, folds them neatly onto doubled stacks of paper plates, and sets them down on the folding table with a handful of plastic forks. Yuuri relocates, dragging the armchair with him because there aren't enough stools. "Guest of honor gets the throne," he says, patting its well-worn seat. "I'll sit over here."

There are many places Victor would rather have Yuuri sit, but he keeps them to himself. Kenjirou indicates sternly that he should fold his hands and bow his head. Victor obliges.

"We-receive-this-food-in-thanks-of-everyone-and-vow-to-respond-with-compassion-and-glitter-the-end," says Kenjirou peaceably, all in one breath.

"The end," echo Yuuri and Phichit sagely.

"The end," says Victor, chuckling. It's perhaps the first time in his God-fearing family's life that he's ever colluded in a nondenominational blessing, and he thinks he might just prefer it to all the amens and forgive-me-Fathers of his childhood. Kenjirou and Yuuri smile their identical smiles at him, and he smiles back, picking up one of the plastic forks.

He takes a bite of the omelet. It's—edible. The cheese tastes weirdly artificial, but it's kind of hard to irrevocably mess up eggs, and he eats with contentment and gratitude. Someday, he vows to himself, he will take Yuuri, Kenjirou, and Phichit to his favorite restaurant in the city. They'll have _coq au vin_ and filet minon medallions and seared scallops with truffle oil. Imagining dining with Yuuri makes him feel warm, nervous. "It's delicious. Hot," he says, to explain away his expression. "Thank you, Phichit."

"Oh, sure, _bellissimo_ ," says Phichit, tossing a kiss from his fingertips. "Five stars. Gourmet!"

"What do rich people eat?" asks Kenjirou, spearing a hot dog slice. "I heard you eat snails with a little fork."

"The only thing I would eat snails with is a mewl of despair," says Yuuri.

"I never cared much for escargot either," says Victor. He shifts a little, and the rustling of his tailored Italian wool suit jacket makes him feel absurd, pompous. He straightens his vest and pulls a paper napkin into his lap to hide his expensive trousers, leaning toward Kenjirou to whisper, "My favorite food is French fries."

"Mine too!" Kenjirou cheers. "Daddy, can we all get French fries next time?"

 _Next time_. The idea makes Victor's stomach flutter with hope, but Yuuri falters, glancing at Victor apologetically. "I don't know, boo. I'm sure that Victor is a very busy man."

"I'm not," Victor blurts, stumbling. "Busy, that is. I mean, it depends on the day, but—I would make time for something important. Like a French fry date."

Yuuri gives him a confused look that fades into radiant surprise. The tips of his ears turn pink with pleasure, and he flushes prettily, kicking Phichit audibly under the table when he starts wriggling his eyebrows at him. "Okay," Yuuri says, treating Victor to a small, shy smile. "Let's, um, get French fries sometime. Victor, could I have your phone number?"

"Certainly," he says. He reads it aloud, and Yuuri enters it into his little prepaid phone, squinting as he works at the tiny, cheap buttons. Victor tries not to flaunt his top-of-the-line mobile as he takes down Yuuri's number, but Phichit squeals at it.

"That camera, though! How many megapixels you got on that bad boy?"

"I think it's sixty-three for panoramas?"

"Imagine the selfies I could take," Phichit sighs. He surprises Victor by taking out a very respectable phone of his own, clearly refurbished, but perfectly functional and sporting an army of hamster charms. He adds Victor's number too. "Could I get a group photo to go with that?" he asks, innocently gesturing Yuuri and Kenjirou into the frame. "Come on, y'all, get close now. Closer—not all of us can shoot wide-angle, you know—"

Yuuri scoots his barstool over until his leg is once again pressed to Victor's, the full, taut length of his thigh delightfully shaky as he leans in. Unabashed, Kenjirou drapes himself all over Victor and sticks out his tongue. Victor laughs. Phichit takes like four hundred pictures, grinning.

"Thanks."

"Any time," says Victor, accidentally imbuing it with so much sincerity that it comes across as a little creepy. He flushes, hoisting Kenjirou onto one knee so he can pat his head. "I like your hair."

"We do the red stripe with raspberry juice," Kenjirou says. "The rest is bleach."

"Like, hair bleach," Yuuri clarifies. "Not just, like, random laundry bleach. We might go blue next time."

"How do you get yours so _white_?" asks Kenjirou, awed.

"Kenjirou!" Yuuri begins, stammering, but they're interrupted by a tremendous _bang_ as someone kicks the trailer door open.

Victor jumps about a mile in the air. He's not the only one, either: Phichit shrieks and reaches for his phone, and Yuuri scrabbles for Kenjirou, hauling him into his arms and crushing him against his chest. Victor only realizes he's lunged protectively in front of the three of them the instant it becomes ridiculous: a young, whip-thin blond steps up into the trailer—he's wearing high-waisted shorts, cowboy boots, and a pink tank-top that's limp with sweat—and stares at the plastic fork Victor is brandishing at him.

"The fuck you planning to do with that thing?" he demands. He tilts around him to look at Yuuri. "Did you see this car? Holy _shit_!"

"Yurio!" Yuuri gasps. He's trembling, knuckles white around fistfuls of Kenjirou's shirt.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry, but fuck!" Yurio shouts, and darts back down the stairs again, a stream of 'fuck-fuck-fuck' trailing behind him in the brisk evening.

"Fuck," repeats Kenjirou faintly.

"No! Bad word!" Phichit scolds, recovering first. He lets out a low, long breath, then reaches over to clasp Yuuri's shoulder, gently relieving him of Kenjirou and hitching him onto one slim hip. "We'll be outside, okay?" he says softly. He waits for Yuuri's nod, then smiles, eyes briefly meeting Victor's for one careful, appraising moment. "See you in a sec."

"Yes," says Victor, giving him a distant wave. His heart is still thudding in his chest.

The door slaps shut behind Phichit as he carries Kenjirou outside. Victor puts the fork down, chuckling a little—and sobers instantly when he sees that Yuuri still has his eyes squeezed shut, and has wrapped his arms tightly around himself for comfort, shaking uncontrollably.

"Oh, Yuuri," Victor whispers. "Yuuri…"

"S-sorry," Yuuri manages, barely audible. "I—I know it was j-just—I know it w-w—"

Victor touches Yuuri's elbows with the barest tips of his fingers, testing, and when Yuuri nods, he strides forward and pulls him firmly into his arms. Yuuri melts against him. He's so small, so achingly light. His shoulders quake as Victor holds him, burying his face in the crook of his neck, gulping in shallow, shuddering breaths. "Breathe," Victor soothes, stroking his dark hair. "Breathe, Yuuri. You're safe here; Kenjirou is safe. Everything is okay."

Yuuri nods. He tries to speak again and gives up when his voice hiccups, just letting Victor hold him, letting himself be held.

It's a long few minutes before Yuuri finally clears his throat and straightens. He wipes at his face with one flannel sleeve, letting out a soft, embarrassed laugh.

"I swear I'm not always crying," he mumbles, sniffling.

"Wouldn't be anything wrong if you were." Victor studies him, his gorgeous eyes, the trembly bow of his lips. He places a finger beneath Yuuri's chin and guides it up, catching his beautiful, blurred gaze. "Are you okay, Yuuri?"

"I'm fine now," Yuuri says huskily. "Thank you, Victor."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not—not yet. I—I still want you to l- _like_ me."

"It would take extreme circumstances for me to stop liking you at this point," Victor points out, and grins when that tugs a little laugh out of Yuuri. God, this thing between them has moved so hot and _fast_ : he wants to touch Yuuri's pretty mouth, wants to hold him close again and kiss him until he's steady with courage and need. But now's not the time. He lets Yuuri go, and Yuuri sways back against him once before he gains his footing.

"Thank you for trying to defend my family with a used plastic eating utensil," he says, abashed.

Victor laughs. "Thank you for not judging my choice of weapon."

"Oh, I'm judging you," says Yuuri, but his damp eyes are bright and playful. He gives Victor a little push. "Let's get out there before Yurio tries to sexually pleasure himself on your hood."

"Oh, fuck me," says Victor, belatedly remembering that he'd left his one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar convertible outside after dark with a hooligan in a trailer park. He starts out the door, doubles back, and seizes Yuuri's hand in his. The contact is electrifying even as he drags Yuuri outside, leather dress shoes stirring up clouds of dust.

The blond boy, Yurio, is salaaming to one of his custom chrome wheel covers. His hair is a mess around his face as he turns to Victor, gasping. "It's yours?" he demands.

"Yes," says Victor, with a touch of pride. "Her name is Makkachin."

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely glorious," says Yurio. He stands up and paces around the car twice before he pauses to get an actual look a Victor, dark eye shadow sharpening as he squints. "Where are you from?" he asks in Russian.

"Saint Petersburg," Victor replies.

Yurio makes a pfft-sound and gives him a thumbs-down. "Got enough Slavic drug addict trash around here already," he says, his dialect hard with colloquialisms, immigrant-like. He flashes a thirty-day sobriety chip and adds, in English: "Only difference between me 'n you is one of us called it 'X' and the other calls it 'Molly.' When's the last time you rolled, big guy?"

"Lay off, Moscow," says Phichit, giggling. "He's here for Yuuri."

"Oh." Yurio smirks. "No street name for that, yet."

"Helps that we don't even live on one," says Yuuri. He's still holding Victor's hand behind his back, so that Phichit and Yurio can't see from their angle. "Victor, this is Yuri Plisetsky. He's our only clean neighbor."

"I hear that it works if you work it," says Yurio.

Kenjirou, still in Phichit's arms, glances back and forth between Yurio and his father. "What works?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, boo-boo." Yurio's voice changes completely when he addresses Kenjirou; becomes smooth, sweet. It makes Victor like him immediately, sobriety chip and all. Victor takes his keys out of his pocket and gives them a twirl.

"Want to test drive?" he asks.

Yurio's jaw drops. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Just mind the paint job and—oh, okay," Victor says as Yurio yanks the keychain from him and falls to his knees, hands folded in prayer.

"Thank yoooou!" he yells to the sky. Then, to Victor: "Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you, weird pretentious mystery man, thank you Yuuri's legs or ass or whatever brought you here, just in general fucking _thank you_."

"Yurio said a bad word," says Kenjirou.

"All Yurio words are bad words," says Phichit serenely.

Victor grins as Yurio leaps behind the wheel and jams the key in the ignition, practically orgasming at the husky purr of the engine turning over. How quickly things change: he's no longer worried about this strange kid stealing his car, or the low-income neighborhood, or the quality of the dusty little boy's parents. No, his only concern is Yuuri. Impressing him, courting him, and doing his best to _deserve_ him.

"You coming?" he asks, and beams when Yuuri smiles and nods shyly. Victor holds the door open for him. Yuuri cups his face gently with one hand as he moves by, the touch tender and lingering, and Victor feels every nerve in his body catch fire.

From now on, as long as he has his way, Yuuri and his family are going to travel in style.


End file.
